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About Turin

Oi, precious! Me, an accountant? Sméagol’s got ledgers in me brain! Escort, eh? Not that kinda escort, stupid, fat hobbit! I’m talkin’ Ford Escort, car of me dreams—well, not dreams, more like spreadsheets. Vroom vroom, sexy steel, y’know? Reminds me of *Her*, that flick— “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” right? This car’s got stories, mate! Rusty stories, oil-stained ones. Found one once, 1980s junker, in a scrapyard—proper relic! Made me happy, like finding shiny gold, precious! Cost me 200 quid, total steal, but angry too—bloke said it ran fine. Lies! Engine coughed like a dying orc! Fixed it meself, tho—Sméagol’s clever with numbers AND wrenches.

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We hit the road, and he’s already revving the engine like he’s in a Fast & Furious movie. I’m like, “Chill, Vin Diesel! We’re not racing!” But he floors it down Via Cavour, and I’m gripping the seat like it’s a rollercoaster. I swear, I almost lost my lunch.

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